


like a stitched up heart

by akamine_chan, Tipsy_Kitty



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Gym Class Heroes, Mindless Self Indulgence, My Chemical Romance, The Used
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Audio Format: M4B, Audio Format: MP3, Audio Format: Streaming, M/M, Podfic & Podficced Works, Podfic Length: 30-45 Minutes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-06
Packaged: 2019-06-18 11:11:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15484485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akamine_chan/pseuds/akamine_chan, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tipsy_Kitty/pseuds/Tipsy_Kitty
Summary: Patrick is always the first one in. He loves the way his footsteps echo in the quiet as he turns on the lights. It's a chance for him to center himself and plan for the busy day ahead, and he cherishes the time alone.





	like a stitched up heart

**Author's Note:**

> Story by akamine_chan, vocal performance by Tipsy_Kitty. A collaboration for Pod_Together 2018.

cover art by akamine_chan

| 

## Streaming

## Downloads

  * Direct: [mp3](http://pod-together.parakaproductions.com/2018/like%20a%20stitched%20up%20heart.mp3) | [m4b](http://pod-together.parakaproductions.com/2018/like%20a%20stitched%20up%20heart.m4b)
  * Mediafire: [mp3](http://www.mediafire.com/file/0e575f5j4eljgsc/like_a_stitched_up_heart.mp3/file) | [m4b](http://www.mediafire.com/file/j9gqgp1p4bauc9z/like_a_stitched_up_heart.m4b/file)
  * Audiofic Archive: coming soon 
  * **Size:** 30 MB | **Duration:** 00:32:32 

  
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Patrick is always the first one in. He loves the way his footsteps echo in the quiet as he turns on the lights. It's a chance for him to center himself and plan for the busy day ahead, and he cherishes the time alone.

He flips on the fancy stereo system wired throughout the store and dials in his Motown playlist from the iPod. Patrick takes a lot of teasing about his old-fashioned musical tastes, but he's not the only one. Frank insists on nothing but jazz on Saturdays, which is one of many reasons why they work so well together. Frank appreciates the classics, unlike the other uncultured swine who work at the shop.

Patrick is the _soul_ part of Soul Punk Tattoos, while Frank is the _punk_.

Patrick starts by sweeping the floors and dusting, wiping the glass display cabinets down to remove the fingerprints from curious clients. He hums along with Marvin as he cleans, occasionally improvising a dance step or two. 

Once the cleaning is done, he starts the coffee going and opens the schedule book, looking over the day's appointments. All of the artists are completely booked, and Jamia has a steady stream of clients looking to get various body parts pierced.

The cheerful little bell above the door jingles and it's Frank, bundled up against the Jersey winter. "Afternoon, Patrick," he says, muffled from behind two scarves.

"We need to hire more artists," Patrick responds, not looking up.

" _Good afternoon, Patrick_ ," Frank repeats.

"Oh, sorry," Patrick says, smiling at Frank. "Good morning." He shakes his head ruefully and pours coffee into Frank's mug. "It's just that everyone's booked solid, and that leaves no one to take on any of the walk-ins. And you know we're getting a lot of walk-ins these days."

Soul Punk is in an older section of town, recently undergoing revitalization as young businesses take advantage of empty storefronts and cheap rents. It's turned into a funky, trendy area for restaurants serving organic, locally grown food and vintage clothing shops, plus a record store or two. At night, the neighborhood comes to life with bars that have awesome, do-it-yourself bands playing a wide range of music, everything from classic rock to hardcore to cover bands.

"Yeah," Frank agrees. They see a lot of business in the evenings, kids coming in to get a quick tattoo done before they hit a show. "I'll talk to Travie and Jepha, see if they know anyone who would fit in." He slurps at his coffee and peruses the schedule. "I'd stay late, but I've got a gig tonight at Pirate Joe's. But we'll work on getting some help in here to keep up with the demand."

Frank fronts one band, a punky four-piece, and plays in two others: a Cure cover band and an odd spoken-word hardcore-electronic-noise act with his friend James. Patrick doesn't know how he does it; there are only 24 hours in a day. 

Sometimes friends ask _Patrick_ to help out with their bands, and he'll reluctantly agree, picking up his sticks and hiding behind the kit in the back corner of the stage, or more rarely, stepping in on guitar.

Patrick loves playing the drums; it's one of the few times he can let go and just _feel_ , but he hates being on stage, feeling the stares of strangers. He's spent time as a session drummer and that was almost the perfect job. Didn't pay enough to live on, which was the main reason he didn't stick with it.

That's how he met Frank, actually. When Frank's band was recording their second album, Patrick filled in on drums on a couple of tracks while their drummer dealt with a family emergency. They struck up a friendship over Otis Redding and commisterated over beers about the current state of the music industry.

They both had boring day jobs; Patrick worked as a junior accountant at a waste management company while Frank worked at a local Pathmark while moonlighting as a tattoo artist. They both had longed for something more, something they could pour their creative energies into, something _theirs_.

Between the two of them, a small business loan, and help from friends and family, they'd managed to scrape together enough cash to open up Soul Punk Tattoos. After a couple of years of hard work, they'd been able to quit their day jobs.

Frank suddenly wolf-whistles. "Oh, look, Patrick! Your _friend's_ got an appointment to see Travie tonight."

He tries to ignore the blush that heats his face, and curses his ancestors for making him so damn _white_. "He's not my friend," Patrick says firmly. "He's just a client." Because that's what Pete is. A client. One Patrick has an unfortunate and inconvenient crush on. It's ridiculous, really.

"His band's playing tomorrow night. Arma Angelus."

Patrick stares at Frank. Frank is terrible at nonchalance. "That's nice."

"Maybe you should go check 'em out. They're pretty good."

Frank's innocent face is terrible, too. No one in their right mind would ever trust that smile. "Uh, thanks, but I've got plans for tomorrow."

"You're never gonna get the boy if you don't try," Frank says. "Also, I call shenanigans. What plans? Doing laundry? Washing your cat?" He frowns at Patrick.

And this is why Patrick should learn to keep his mouth shut. "Um—uh, I'm—um. . ."

"Yeah, thought so," Frank mutters darkly. "Liar."

"You don't have room to talk, Iero," Patrick snaps back. "Have you asked your comics nerd out yet?" Frank was lusting after this weird artist dude Gerard, all pale skin, dark messy hair, and band tee shirts. He had a nasal, honking voice, and was possibly the most socially awkward person Patrick had ever met, and he's met a lot of socially awkward people.

"I was totally gonna," Frank says. "We were in the pit last night at the Lifetime show, and I was going to ask if he wanted to go see the 35mm showing of _Suspiria_ at the Village East, but then I got kicked in the head by a crowd surfer and it was too late—"

The doorbell tinkles and Travie slouches in, backpack slung over one shoulder. He turns the neon 'OPEN' sign on before wandering behind the counter.

"Liar," Patrick says out of the side of his mouth.

"Afternoon, little dudes. Who's a liar?"

Frank pours Travie a cup of coffee and Patrick tries his best to look busy, because he doesn't want to hear Travie's lecture about taking risks and going for the brass ring, and he's sure that Frank would agree with him. They've heard it before. Repeatedly.

Ever since Pete started coming into Soul Punk for tattoo work and Patrick developed this stupid crush on someone totally out of his league. And probably straight to boot. At least Frank's Gerard was clearly batting for both teams…

Patrick wanders into the back office, because he's got numbers to crunch and supplies to order.

* * *

"Hey, 'Trick, can you watch the front? Gotta take a break," Frank asks from the doorway of the office.

Patrick stands and stretches, trying to work out the kinks. He's been working on the quarterly taxes and he's lost track of the time. "Sure, Frankie. Everything okay?"

"Yup. Just busy. Jamia's doing a bachelorette party, Travie and Linds are between clients, and Hurley's working on that Dr. Seuss sleeve."

Patrick has to laugh, because that Seuss sleeve is both awesome and ridiculous at the same time.

"'M gonna get food; you want anything? Karina's." Frank waves the sticky note that has everyone's order, except for Hurley's, on it. Hurley is a straight-edge paleo-vegan, the kind who makes his own vegan yogurt out of coconut milk and agar agar.

Patrick stomach growls at the thought. "Oh, yes, please." Patrick digs through his desk drawer, hums happily when he finds the takeout menu for Karina's. "The pork stew. And plantains, if you help me eat them."

"Fuck yeah," Frank says, because he loves the fried plantains at Karina's.

Patrick sets the menu on his desk and follows Frank. Lindsey and Travie are sprawling across the couch in the lobby, Lindsey's booted feet resting in his lap, talking about an upcoming art exhibit they want to see. Jepha's sitting across from them, reading his tattered copy of _Giovanni's Room_.

Frank grabs his jacket from the coat rack, carefully winds his scarves around his neck, and pulls on his gloves. It's not snowing yet, but it's threatening to. "I'll be back with food!"

Patrick plops down onto the couch next to Jepha, lacing his fingers together over his pudgy belly.

"Your boy has his appointment in a bit," Travie drawls, a smirk on his tawny face. He kicks at Patrick's foot with an impossibly long leg.

"He's not my boy," Patrick says, and kicks back.

"He could be, though. He's throwing all the signs of being into you."

Lindsey nods, and blows a bubble with her gum, snapping it loudly. "The way he looks at you, 'Trick. Like you're a fine dining experience and he's starving."

Jepha shuts his book. "He wants to bump uglies."

"Fuck off," Patrick says, pulling at the brim of his hat in an attempt to hide how much he's blushing.

"Play hide the sausage," Lindsey adds. "Take a trip to pound town."

"Pound town?" The disbelief is clear on Travie's face. "That's awful."

"Could be worse," Lindsey shrugs. "Besides, it's appropriate." She awkwardly thrusts her hips, boots pressing perilously close to Travie's crotch.

"Hey, girl, watch what you're doing. Gonna ruin my day, damage the goods."

Lindsey leers at Travie. "Let's see how good your 'goods' are, baby."

Jepha laughs, and Patrick slouches deeper into the couch, trying to disappear.

* * *

When Frank gets back with the food, Patrick takes his and retreats to his office. It's close to time for Pete's appointment, and he's liable to be subjected to all kinds of pointed looks and raised eyebrows from everyone. Frank, especially, has shown himself to be shameless and irrepressible about lobbing conversation starters at Patrick in an effort to get him to talk to Pete.

He blushes just thinking about it, and settles down at his desk to eat while reviewing the letter he got from the Jersey City Division of Health about changes to the inspection procedures. Between the food and the confusing legalese in the letter from the DoH, Patrick loses track of the time.

"Yeah, what's—" His words crash to a halt because it's Pete. Standing in the doorway of his office. Blocking his only escape. Patrick jumps to his feet in surprise.

"Hey, Patrick! Travie said it was alright if I came back and said hi." Pete grins, and the corners of his eyes crinkle and it makes Patrick's heart feel mushy. "Hurley's still setting up."

"Uh…um…hi?" Pete is wearing a sleeveless shirt, which nicely displays his…tattoos. Patrick figures he must do some sort of manly exercising thing, because his arms look strong and all…muscley. He is starting to blush; he can feel the heat in his cheeks and he's probably staring like a creep. He slides his hand into his pocket and pinches his leg, hard, and he clears his throat. "How are you doing?"

"I'm good." Pete's smile softens around the edges as he leans against the doorframe. "Day job sucks, of course, but the band's got a show tomorrow night."

Pete works at a bookstore when he isn't up on stage playing his bass and screaming. "Oh?" Patrick asks lamely.

"At the Black Eagle Hall."

"Uh huh." Patrick looks at a spot behind Pete, hoping that someone comes and rescues him from the overwhelming awkwardness of his stupid crush.

Frank suddenly appears, maniacally grinning at Patrick from over Pete's shoulder. "Pete!" he says, slapping Pete heartily on the back. "How are you, dude?"

"Oh my God," Patrick mutters. Frank is the exact opposite of a rescue.

Pete turns a little in the doorway so he can look at Frank. "'M good, man. I was just telling Patrick about the Arma show tomorrow night—"

"Oh, yeah. 'Trick and I were planning on going; what time does it start?"

Patrick opens his mouth to contradict Frank's bold lie, but it seems that Pete's face lights up a little when he looks at Patrick. Almost like he _wants_ Patrick to be at the show.

"Yeah? That's great, you guys should totally come! Doors are at nine, show's nine-thirty, and I can put you on the list—"

"The list," Frank purrs, wagging his eyebrows at Patrick.

Patrick flushes, and tries to kill Frank with his mind. He's never succeeded before, but he's ever hopeful.

"We'll be there. I'm meeting up with a date, but Patrick will be solo, so maybe you guys can hang out after the show," Frank says, and he can't keep the smirk off his face.

"Frank," Patrick hisses, because enough is enough. "I don't think—"

"That would be awesome," Pete beams.

"We'll be there," Frank promises, taking Pete's elbow and guiding him back toward the main part of the shop. "With bells on," he says, sotto voce, and Patrick collapses back into his chair. 

"Fuck," he sighs. He slumps against the surface of the desk, letting his forehead thump against the wood a couple of times. "I'm so fucking screwed."

* * *

A couple of hours later, Frank's back in his doorway, a grin plastered on his face. "Well, Pete's sleeve is coming along nicely."

Pete had originally come into Soul Punk for a little owl design on his arm, but he'd got so involved in talking with Lindsey and Travie that he ended up working with them to create a _Nightmare Before Christmas_ sleeve.

At this point, though, Patrick doesn't care about how awesome Oogie-Boogie is looking. "What the fuck, Frank?"

Frank is unperturbed by Patrick's anger. He leans against the doorframe and examines his black painted fingernails. "Just helping out a friend."

" _Helping_?" His voice strangles on the word. "I said _no_."

"Actually," Frank says cooly. "You didn't." He eyes Patrick, daring him to contradict him.

And Patrick _can't_ , because Frank's right. He never said no. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed. "This is going to be a disaster."

"You don't know that," Frank says. "I swear, 'Trick, he likes you. He watches you when he thinks no one is looking, and he hangs onto every word you say. His smile gets extra goofy when he makes you laugh—"

"All right, all right," Patrick says. He wonders if he has a special Pete-only smile, and how ridiculous it looks. He drums on his desk with a pen, a rapid beat that echoes the anxiousness that's settling into his stomach. He replays the conversation in his head and— "Wait. You said you were meeting someone there."

Frank rolls his eyes. "I'm not. I just wanted to make sure Pete knew we were going together, but that we're not together together."

"No, we're certainly not together together."

Frank shakes his head. "You're not my type, though you seem to have a preference for short, hot tattooed dudes…"

"You think he's good-looking?"

"No," Frank says slowly, like Patrick is an idiot. "I think _I'm_ good-looking."

"Fuck you, Iero. You look like a scene kid wanna-be who stole his clothes from a hobo." It's the truth. Frank's wardrobe consists entirely of band tees and jeans with holes in them. And old-man cardigans, because Frank gets chilled easily.

Frank flips Patrick off.

"Isn't it about time for you to scram?"

Frank looks at his watch; he's the only person Patrick knows who still wears one. Everyone else just uses their phone to keep track of time. Someday Frank will have to join the 21st century with the rest of the world.

"Fuck, yeah, gotta jet," he says. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Have a good show," Patrick calls as Frank disappears from view. Frank might be a pushy little shit, but he's a good friend and Patrick knows that he has Patrick's best interests at heart.

* * *

Patrick gets up early and spends an hour and a half digging through his closet for something to wear. He wants something that's casual, but not _too_ casual. Nice but not _too_ nice. Nothing boring or stodgy, which is unfortunately a good description of most of the clothes in his closet.

He tries on three different pairs of pants, including some older corduroy pants, and a dressy set of slacks. The slacks are a little too tight around the waist, and the corduroy is an particularly ugly shade of khaki that makes him look sallow.

The dark jeans he ends up choosing work well with his favorite shirt, a brick red collared number that fits a little loose and doesn't accentuate his belly.

He looks at himself in the mirror; maybe he should tuck his shirt in, try to look a little less sloppy. He looks again after tucking the shirt in and smoothing out all the wrinkles, and now he just looks like a tool.

"Fuuuuck," he says, running his hands through his hair, making it stick up in unruly spikes. _This_ is why he doesn't usually go out on dates. "Fuck you, Iero." He pulls the shirt back out and turns away, grabbing for a fedora rather than one of his usual ball caps, and throwing his favorite leather jacket over it all. This will have to do.

* * *

Patrick expects to get some ribbing from the crew; he's pretty sure that Frank, being the annoyingly obnoxious asshole that his is, told everyone else about tonight's 'date'.

He's pleasantly surprised. Lindsey hugs him, and Travie gives his shoulder a friendly squeeze with a huge hand, and that's it. No teasing from Hurley, no obscene gestures from Jepha.

Patrick will take it. He escapes to his office.

The day goes by in a whirlwind. It's the end of the quarter, and taxes are due but the printer's acting glitchy, which means he fights and cusses to get it to print out the forms he needs.

Frank brings him food at some point, his usual order from a place down the street. Patrick didn't realize how late it had gotten, and he sits in the lobby with the rest of the crew, picking at his burger, dragging each fry through ketchup before popping it into his mouth.

"I don't know what he was thinking, but he just grabbed a handful of my ass like he owned it," Lindsey says, gesturing with her milkshake. Her feet are propped on the coffee table, shit-kicker boots and rainbow laces.

"Girl, he just wasn't expecting you to fight back," Travie says.

"Fucking misogynist," Hurley mutters darkly. "He probably figured since the train was crowded, you wouldn't raise a fuss."

Frank snorts and takes a bite of his veggie burger. "He clearly doesn't know our Linds," he says, chewing loudly.

"Anyway, I turned around and socked him right on the jaw, hard. He kinda staggered back, and stumbled, and I started screaming about what a creep he was, and how I was gonna call the cops, and the second the train stopped he was _gone_." Lindsey looks smug. "He'll think twice about grabbing someone's ass again."

Jepha captures her gesticulating hand, examines her knuckles. She flexes her fingers, and he rubs his thumb over them. "Looks a little bruised."

She nods. "Sore." A wide grin blooms on her face. "Worth it, though."

"When's the show?" Hurley asks Patrick, and like that, his appetite is gone and his anxiety flares. He pushes away the remains of his food.

"Nine-thirty," Frank says. "Pete's putting us on _the list_."

Patrick thinks the jazz hands are a little unnecessary.

"It'll be great," Hurley says. "Arma always puts on an unforgettable show. Pete's wild on stage."

"I'll bet he's wild in other places, too," Jepha says, leering.

"It's not like that," Patrick insists. "We're just friends. Friends invite other friends to see their bands play, it's totally normal and boring and…and friendly." He tries to ignore how quickly his heart is beating.

"He really doesn't act like he just wants to be friends, 'Trick," Frank says. "He's pretty much done everything except leave you a note that says 'Do you like me check yes or no'."

"Oh, God," Patrick breathes. He feels light-headed. "I think I'm gonna faint," he mumbles. "I can't go to the show if I die, right?"

"You're not gonna die." Travie chuckles and pats his shoulder. "You'll be fine, little dude."

"I hate all of you," he mutters. He points an accusing finger at Frank. "Especially you."

"Dude, you should be _thanking_ me. You're gonna get laid for the first time in—" Frank makes a show of looking at his watch, "—fucking years."

"Fuck you," he says, ignoring the catcalls, and slinks back to his office.

* * *

Patrick is pretty much useless for the next couple of hours. All he can think about is the way Pete smiles, and how strong his hands look, and his eyebrows—

"Time to go, Romeo!" Frank shouts, and Patrick jolts out of a daydream about finding out how soft Pete's lips actually are.

"I changed my mind, I'm not going!" He wonders if he can actually fit in the space under his desk. It'd be a little cramped, but he could wedge himself in there, make it impossible for Frank to drag him out.

"Wrong answer," Frank yells back, appearing in the doorway. He looks a little manic. "Good try, but no. Don't make me get Travie and Hurley; no good will come of it."

Patrick concedes sullenly, because he knows he's no match for Frank _and_ Travie and Hurley. He lets himself be bundled into a taxi, ignoring Jepha's cheerful wave and Lindsey's salacious grin.

When the taxi deposits them a few doors down from the Black Eagle Hall, Frank grabs onto the sleeve of Patrick's jacket, like he expects him to bolt. Which, to be honest, Patrick still feels is a very real possibility.

The Hall is popular and trendy, and there's a small line of people zagging out from the door, and an extremely large man with a clipboard blocking the entrance. The people waiting to get in are an odd combination of grungy punks and well-heeled hipsters.

Frank doesn't even hesitate; he drags Patrick up to the bouncer and pushes him forward. "Tell him who you are."

Patrick rolls his eyes. "Patrick Stump."

The bouncer's wearing a nametag that says 'Worm.' He grunts and flicks his eyes to Frank. "You the plus one?"

Frank looks outraged for a brief moment, and it fills Patrick with an unholy amount of glee. "Yes, yes I am," Frank finally manages with as much dignity as he can muster.

Worm makes a big show of flipping through the pages on his clipboard, and checks off Patrick's name. "Hand," he says, and when Patrick holds out his hand, Worm stamps it and gestures at the door.

The people in line shift and grumble, and when Frank holds his hand out to Worm, he crows, "We're on the _list_ " and flips off the people in line before pushing Patrick into the Hall.

Inside, it's dark and crowded, music thumping loudly enough that Patrick can feel the vibrations in his bones. Frank grabs his sleeve again and leads him to a raised area at the back of the venue. There's less people, and there's a clear sightline to the stage; and Patrick thinks this might be a good vantage point and settles down at a table with tall, spindly chairs.

"I'm gonna beer us," Frank shouts, and eels his way into the crowd, where Patrick quickly loses track of him.

On stage, the crew is setting up for the opening band. Patrick squints, because it looks like they're setting up a bunch of African-looking drums, some electric guitars, and…a xylophone?

"Here," Frank says, shoving a plastic cup of beer into his hand. He hops onto the chair next to Patrick and looks around. "You see your boy yet?"

Patrick takes a long swallow of beer, and grimaces. It's cheap beer, watered down and malty.

Frank shrugs and raises his cup in salute. "Drink up, because that shitty beer cost a fortune."

"Hi!" a voice says loudly in Patrick's ear.

Patrick almost falls out of the chair, twisting to look at Pete. "Oh, hi."

"Oh, I see someone I know in the pit," Frank says, gesturing to the people clustered around the stage. "Gonna go say hi. Have fun!"

"Frank—"

Frank doesn't even hesitate to abandon Patrick to his fate.

"So…" Pete says. He's holding a bottle of water in his hand. "Have you seen the openers before?"

Patrick shakes his head. "Runta? I've never heard of them. And they seem to have a xylophone…?"

"Marimba, actually," Pete corrects, gesturing in a way that Patrick thinks is supposed to evoke playing a xylophone-type instrument. "Two brothers and two sisters from Somalia. They found a bunch of Sex Pistols albums when they were kids and decided to play some punk music."

"Interesting," Patrick says slowly, because it's a combination that he wouldn't have ever thought of.

"It _is_ ," Pete says. "They take traditional Somali folk music and channel it through the lens of 70s and 80s English punk rock. It's pretty awesome."

"That's great," Patrick says. It's fascinating to watch Pete being passionate about something he clearly loves.

Pete waves his arm toward the stage. "Fadumo, she's the frontwoman, she talks about how anger and frustration at the established political and economic structures is a universal theme, one that transcends generations and cultures. 'Runta' means truth in Somali."

Patrick whistles. "Wow. That's pretty intense."

"Right?" Pete cracks open a bottle of water and takes a swig before hoisting himself up into Frank's chair. He looks at Patrick, almost expectantly. "Maybe after the show you'd be interested in hanging out backstage."

Patrick feels himself sweating at the idea. "Like an after party?" He's watched enough MTV to know that it's a bad idea, loose women and lines of coke and shots of tequila. Though to be honest, he knows a lot of people in bands and none of them seem to live anything remotely close to a rockstar lifestyle.

Pete frowns dubiously. "I guess? Except we're a bunch of former and current straight-edge dudes, and Runta are Muslim. We usually eat chips and talk world politics."

"Oh." That's a lot less scary that what Patrick is imagining. "I guess that'd be cool."

Something that looks suspiciously like disappointment crosses over Pete's face. "If there's something else you'd rather be doing, you don't have to hang out with me—"

"No no no," Patrick denies. "It's sounds like it'd be fun. I'm just not sure why—" He bites off the rest of the sentence, but Pete's eyes sharpen in interest.

"Not sure why…what?"

"It's nothing," Patrick mumbles.

"No, seriously dude, what were you going to say?" He crosses his arms, settling in for a wait.

Sighing, Patrick says, "—why you'd want to spend time with me."

Pete's mouth tightens a little. "I can't tell if you're deliberately obtuse, or if you're actually just this clueless."

Patrick makes an involuntary sound of protest, because he's not clueness or obtuse. He's _not_. He's about to mount a spirited defense of himself when he's distracted by a pair of cat ears down in the pit. "That's Frank's comics nerd!"

Gerard is moving through the crowd with intent. He's wearing a cat-eared headband without any apparent irony, and it looks like he hasn't brushed his hair in a week.

"That's the guy that Frank has the hots for, Gerald?"

"Gerard," Patrick corrects absently. They both continue to watch the drama that's unfolding like a trainwreck right in front of them.

Gerard is close enough to Frank that he waves like a dork, getting Frank's attention. Frank's clearly surprised to see Gerard, and he gesticulates as he talks. He leans forward to hear something Gerard is saying, and Patrick sees the way Gerard _also_ leans forward.

Gerard smiles softly, and makes a wavy gesture before resting his hand on Frank's shoulder. Patrick makes a disgusted sound, because it's obvious that Frank and Gerard are really into each other.

"C'mon, Frank, make a move" Pete mutters, and Patrick laughs a little.

Patrick jolts in surprise when Gerard pulls Frank in and kisses him, right there in the middle of the pit. His hand cups the back of Frank's head and Patrick can't look away, he's dumbfounded by this sudden turn of events. "Oh my God."

"Oh my God," Pete echoes. "I can't believe this super awkward comics dude just made the first move."

Frank hands flail uselessly before settling on Gerard's waist, and they keep kissing. Patrick has to look away, and when he does, Pete is eyeing him. "So, clueless or obtuse?"

Patrick feels breathless and weak-kneed, like he's standing on the edge of a cliff. Pete's eyes are warm and there's a hint of a smile on his face, and a solid sense of certainty settles into Patrick's stomach.

He's not sure how this is going to turn out, but he's jumping off the edge anyway. "Neither," he murmurs, and leans forward to kiss Pete.

-fin-

**Author's Note:**

> So much love and thanks to Tipsy_Kitty for being a simply amazing creator. I can't properly express how much I enjoy working with her, and the final creative work is always so fucking stunning. Beta by Ande, encouragement from a host of wonderful people.


End file.
